His father was gone.

It wasn’t supposed to have been like this.

Ten minutes later, he strode into the house via a side door, the one he’d always used. The few minutes in the stables hadn’t helped his temper; the head stableman, Milbourne, hailed from long ago, and had offered his condolences and welcomed him back.

He’d acknowledged the well-meant words with a curt nod, left the post-horses to Milbourne’s care, then remembered and paused to tell him that Henry-Milbourne’s nephew-would be arriving shortly with Royce’s own pair. He’d wanted to ask who else of the long-ago staff were still there, but hadn’t; Milbourne had looked too understanding, leaving him feeling…exposed.

Not a feeling he liked.

His greatcoat swirling about his booted calves, he headed for the west stairs. Pulling off his driving gloves, he stuffed them into a pocket, then took the shallow steps three at a time.

He’d spent the last forty-eight hours alone, had just arrived-and now needed to be alone again, to absorb and in some way subdue the unexpectedly intense feelings returning like this had stirred. He needed to quiet his restless temper and leash it more firmly.

The first floor gallery lay ahead. He took the last stairs in a rush, stepped into the gallery, swung left toward the west tower-and collided with a woman.

He heard her gasp.

Sensed her stumbling and caught her-closed his hands about her shoulders and steadied her. Held her.

Even before he looked into her face, he didn’t want to let her go.

His gaze locked on her eyes, wide and flaring, rich brown with gold flecks, framed by lush brown lashes. Her long hair was lustrous wheat-gold silk, wound and anchored high on her head. Her skin was creamy perfection, her nose patrician straight, her face heart-shaped, her chin neatly rounded. Itemizing those features in a glance, his gaze fixed on her lips. Rose-petal pink, parted in shocked surprise, the lower lushly tempting, the urge to crush them beneath his was nearly overpowering.